


In Good Hands

by unamaga



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: ASMR, Autonomous sensory meridian response, Comfort, Derek Hale Can Have Nice Things, Friendship/Love, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Safety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 19:59:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1911843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unamaga/pseuds/unamaga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek looks at Stiles' fingers and sees all the times Stiles has held onto the steering wheel and gearshift in his Jeep. They're nice hands. Derek can notice that objectively, and he guesses most people would think <i>sex</i> before anything else looking at them, but when he looks at them, all he sees is safety. It becomes kind of a thing for him. When he's at his worst, when he feels like peeling himself out of his own skin piece by aching piece, he watches Stiles' big hands smoothing out a map, or squeezing the stress ball Scott jokingly bought him during finals week, or peeling the rind off of an orange, and he feels - he feels okay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Good Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Just a small ficlet, partially inspired by my own ASMR experiences and partially because hands.
> 
> Thanks to Julie for turning off the TV in the middle of a really good episode of NCIS so I could write this, and thanks to our dog, Cookie, for immediately chowing down as noisily as possible in the ensuing silence, ensuring my ability to write only two words at a time in between cringes. Julie is also due props for cheerleading and being generally awesome and inspiring and the best fiance in the world, _in the world_. ♥ ♥

Derek looks at Stiles' fingers and sees all the times Stiles has held onto the steering wheel and gearshift in his Jeep. They're nice hands. Derek can notice that objectively, and he guesses most people would think _sex_ before anything else looking at them, but when he looks at them, all he sees is safety. It becomes kind of a thing for him. When he's at his worst, when he feels like peeling himself out of his own skin piece by aching piece, he watches Stiles' big hands smoothing out a map, or squeezing the stress ball Scott jokingly bought him during finals week, or peeling the rind off of an orange, and he feels - he feels okay. 

Stiles catches him at it, of course. Stiles is disgustingly perceptive exactly when you don't want him to be, and annoyingly oblivious about everything else in the world. His focus is usually fleeting unless you manage to intrigue him, and Derek's certainly done that since the moment they met.

This time, he's watching Stiles organize his class notes. He has some sort of system, but Derek can't figure out the logic behind it: the stacks look haphazard at best, and some pages from the same class date are put into different piles than others, which seems counterintuitive to Derek. It's soothing to watch him work, however inscrutable, and Derek's drifting warmly, comfortably, able to ignore for the first time all day the way his shirt feels too itchy and his toes ache to be out of his shoes. 

Stiles' fingers pause, just for a moment, just long enough for Derek to notice, and then they're working again, but slower and more deliberately than before. 

After that, it's only a matter of time. Derek knows Stiles well enough to recognize he's being analyzed every time they're together after that, and it's not like Stiles is being exactly subtle. After the notes, he brings over a glossy-paged book about the wonders of the world and spends a good hour lounging on Derek's couch, gently tracing the contours of each picture and map until Derek feels like he's weighted down to the floor with contentment. After that, it's a present he has to wrap for a friend back on campus, the paper heavy and thick where he creases it to fold it into neat corners. Then it's a care-worn worry stone, and a wine glass he carefully chips old paint off of with his nails.

Derek can't remember the last time he felt so comfortable in his own body. 

Stiles shows up without an obvious prop the next time, flinging himself into one of the living room chairs and staring at Derek upside down with his head over one arm. 

"I get it," he says. "I mean, I do, but I don't."

He watches Derek plainly for a minute, obviously expecting Derek to give him some kind of answer that Derek doesn't actually have. Derek's not even going to pretend he doesn't know what Stiles means, but knowing what Stiles means and having any kind of coherent explanation for him that doesn't consist entirely of 'your hands have held my body together often enough that I'm beginning to trust them to hold the rest of me together too' are two very different things. Derek’s not ready to share that yet. So when all Derek does is sit on the edge of the couch and watch him back, Stiles sighs with his whole body and sits up. 

"Okay, we'll do this the other way," he tells Derek. He practically falls out of the chair reaching for his abandoned backpack, and then starts pulling things out and setting them on the end table between them: his laptop, a dust jacket-covered library book on something called EFT, a fleece blanket, two containers of play-doh, the head of his old lacrosse stick, some new string still in the package, and a bottle of baby oil.

"I have no idea what's happening right now," Derek admits.

Stiles quickly says, "I can explain." Derek certainly hopes so. "So I figured out pretty quickly it wasn't a sexual thing, which - fair. My hands are kind of too bony to be sexy to most people, I guess. And, like, you barely even blinked when I tried licking butter off my fingers last week to make sure."

Derek feels his face go hot and moans out, "Oh my god, that's why?"

Ignoring him, Stiles goes on, "But since it wasn't sexual, I was kind of at a loss at first? And then I watched you reacting. Do you have any idea how satisfying it is to watch you actually relax, to know that all I had to do was sit there and touch some stuff and you'd go down like you'd just gotten the best massage of your entire life? Basically I never want to stop.” 

He’s pulling off the lid of one of the containers of play-doh, and Derek finds himself rooted to the spot despite his embarrassment, watching him slide the cylinder of red doh onto his hand and start kneading it.

“So I’ve figured out the how, obviously,” Stiles says, “and it’s kind of fun being creative with that part. But I don’t get the why. You don’t have to tell me, but I thought I’d give you a heads up that I plan to find out.”

Derek ignores a pang of anxiety, instead giving himself over to the comfort of watching Stiles and knowing it’s okay to do it now. It’s even better for being deliberate, and for the way Stiles’ regard settles over him like a heavy sweater, his eyes warm and present. Derek feels known, _indulged_ , curled over the arm of the sofa to get closer to Stiles, his arms and legs light and loose like they’re not even attached.

It becomes a regular thing, time that he and Stiles quietly and sweetly share with each other. Sometimes Stiles brings new props and they work so well Derek finds out exactly how deeply he can sink into whatever space Stiles so effortlessly pushes him towards, and sometimes Stiles just does his homework or reads, his hands still except for the flipping of a page, and Derek lies on the rug watching and imagining himself in the place of the book: sheltered in the curve of Stiles’ hip, both warm hands holding him steady, Stiles’ attention and time devoted entirely to him. 

He even imagines a kiss when he’s feeling brave.

It’s not about sex, Stiles was right about that – Derek can’t even imagine bringing the vicious ugliness of sex into something so soft – but Derek’s starting to suspect it may be a little bit about love.


End file.
